


Short Skirt Weather (My Baby's Made For It)

by shewho



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Also Ecstasy, Casual Marijuana And Alcohol Use, Clubbing, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Fluff, Greg Sanders in a Skirt, Introspection, Introspection While Intoxicated, M/M, Mutual Oral Fixations, Pretending to Be Strangers, Recreational Drug Use, Relationship Study, Seriously They Say 'Fuck' Like 37 Times, Teasing!Greg/Possessive!Nick, a lot of swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22030087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewho/pseuds/shewho
Summary: It's been a long fucking week. Time to turn on, tune in, and drop E.Or, "Nick and Greg do drugs and feel each other up in public".
Relationships: Greg Sanders/Nick Stokes
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	Short Skirt Weather (My Baby's Made For It)

Nick’s running late by the time his cab drops him off in front of the club.

Not _late_ late, but later than he said he’d be. He just couldn’t seem to get out of the lab when his shift was over. Everybody needs something from him as he’s trying to get out the door – an update, a signature, two-day-old paperwork, _ten_ -day-old paperwork – and it takes almost an extra half hour to leave.

But half the fun of this game of theirs is in the chase.

In finding Greg wherever he’s holed up amidst the pulse and throb of music and bodies. In the pretense of being strangers, of being helplessly enthralled by that instant-spark-connection. So he’s fairly confident that Greg won’t mind.

The guy at the door collects his cover charge, then stamps the back of his hand and shuffles him through the doorway, just one more in the long line of faceless patrons.

This –

This isn’t something they get to do too often.

There are so many factors and moving parts that go into planning a night like this, but every once in a while the stars will align – they’ll both be maxed out on OT _and_ have simultaneous days off to recuperate from the next-day dearth of serotonin _and_ not be due in court for some endless, pending case – and when that happens, all bets are off.

When that happens, _this_ happens.

So the first floor bar seems as good a place as any to start. That it’s raised several feet above the central dancefloor doesn’t hurt, either, since it gives Nick a better vantage point from which to seek out his quarry.

Nick makes a beeline towards the bar, snags a cranberry juice and an ice water because he’s just nuts about hydration and has also seen bodies of dead club kids turn up in the morgue more times than he can count. Drinks in hand, he sets off to find his man.

(That said, Greg isn’t all that hard to locate. After all, it’s a game, not a challenge.)

Nick finds him tucked away in a corner booth on the second-floor, a half-smoked joint in one hand and a dewy glass in the other.

For a second, he just watches Greg draw spiral swirls in the condensation beading on the sides of the glass with one finger, off in his own little bubble. Whatever Greg’s drinking is a hideous unearthly shade of blue, like something that belongs in an industrial aquarium cleaner or a toilet bowl, not a human mouth, and Nick smothers the taunt of _‘Smurfette’_ that rises to his lips unbidden.

“Hey, bud,” he says instead, all jovial and frat-bro-friendly as he shifts his drinks into one hand and raps the knuckles of his other against the tabletop that’s still tacky with cleanser. Nothing to see here, folks; just two solo dudes out for a night on the town. “This seat taken?”

Greg takes a deep hit and holds it, appraising eyes sweeping over Nick’s plain white t-shirt and work-appropriate jeans. He shakes his head, says, “No, seat’s free.”

“So, cool if I grab a hit of that?” Nick asks, gesturing with his chin.

Greg’s practically _purring_ , half-baked and biting back this huge smirk as he glances up at Nick. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full, handsome. C’mon down here and I’ll let you get a taste. Plenty left to share.”

The vinyl creaks like ancient bed springs as Nick lowers himself into the booth across from Greg. This close, he can see that Greg’s pupils are still normal-sized, that he’s got glitter dusted along his cheeks and collarbones, and that he’s wearing one of Nick’s thick silver rings on chain around his neck.

_Game on, doll._

Nick sets his drinks down and pushes the water towards Greg as subtlety as he can, reaches out with his newly-freed hand. “Thanks, man.”

Ignoring the proffered hand, Greg twists his wrist and lets the lit spliff hover an inch from Nick’s parted lips.

“Don’t be shy,” he says with a coquettish flutter of lashes that should look _ridiculous_ and instead makes something hot begin to coil behind Nick’s belly button. “You know what they say: a few hits a day keep the doctors away.”

“I don’t think that’s quite how it goes.”

Nick leans forward on his elbows to take a long drag. His lips press up against the flat of Greg’s fingers, chin cupped lightly in his palm. It’s a movement too expert, too effortless to be conducted by strangers – especially when Greg’s thumb brushes a few lazy circles against Nick’s jaw, like he just can’t help himself – but the intimacy is soothing. 

(More soothing, maybe, than even the weed. To be determined.)

“Trust me,” Greg says, his eyes all wide sincerity and his grin anything but.

Nick pulls back to blow a lazy smoke ring across the table at Greg, a party trick perfected on the roof outside his bedroom when he was thirteen. “Guess I’ll just have to take your word for it.”

Greg’s eyebrows flick up as he leans back, takes a toke so long that the paper crackles. “Guess so.”

Laid out in the booth like that, with his face lit in odd, angled shadows by the coal-glow end of his blunt and the strobing overhead fluorescents, Greg looks like some kind of noir-esque forties _homme fatal_ rendered in shuddering Technicolor.

If forties _hommes fatals_ wore bleached tips and retina-searing electric blue nail polish and spiked cuff bracelets, which Nick’s fairly confident they did _not_.

Still. It’s a good look for him.

“So, what’re you drinking?” Nick asks, in a cadence that’s sure to sound like a _come-here-often_? flirt to strangers and a _nasty-that-looks-like-Windex-baby_ jab to his intended audience.

Greg pouts at him, all blue lips and tongue like he’s dying, like he’s startin’ to go cyanotic on Nick.

“‘S just Blue Curaçao, with a Jolly Rancher chaser. I like a little something sweet.” He tilts his head, purses his lips around the blue-stained joint as if to say, _you gonna be sweet for me, Nicky?_

Nick gives a low whistle, watches Greg’s mouth touch the paper in the exact same places his own had been just a minute before.

In high school they called that a cootie-kiss, when you’d swap cigs or straws or bottles with somebody; a kiss once-removed. _I’m kissing you in the tenth grade,_ he thinks nonsensically. _Or you’re kissing me._

“That shit’ll rot your teeth,” he says instead, because that’s how this game works. “’S all sugar.”

“Sure you don’t want one?” Greg asks, squirming to reach down into his pocket. “I have more than just the raspberry; got cherry, watermelon, sour green ap-” He tosses a tiny ziplock baggie onto the table between them, and Nick snaps it up, studying the contents with affected interest. 

It’s both hilarious and terrifying how much ecstasy tablets look exactly like children’s chewable vitamins. 

“My, my, my. What do we have here?”

“Don’t!” Greg snaps, suddenly all faux-agitated whispers and glances over his shoulder. “Look, man, it’s no big deal; I’ll give you a roll for free, okay? No charge, if you just gimme back the bag.”

“Jolly Ranchers, huh?”

Greg shifts fitfully in his seat, like he’s getting ready to bolt. “Be cool,” he implores.

“Hey,” Nick says, hands spread in front of him, all easy cadence like Greg’s just another particularly skittish or gun-happy subject. “We’re cool. No worries; I just wanna take a quick look at the goods.”

He shakes the pair of gray-purple tabs out into his palm, pops one into his mouth. Arches an eyebrow at Greg and says, in the same deadpan tone he uses when taking buccal swabs, “Say _‘ah’_.”

And, yeah.

 _Maybe_ he lets his fingers linger on Greg’s tongue for longer than strictly necessary, way longer than he would any stranger’s (as if Nick would ever handfeed club candy to a stranger – not really his style) but what’s the use of playing this game if they aren’t willing to bend the rules a little?

He’s a weak man, especially when it comes to Greg Sanders grinning around his fingers like he’s having the time of his fucking _life_.

And then Greg bites down on his trigger finger, right below the second knuckle; just snaps his teeth closed like a stapler, and Nick hisses between his own teeth because, “Fucking _ouch_ , bro.”

Greg laughs, blue tongue laving over Nick’s bitten knuckle. “Aw, don’t be a baby.”

The words come out in a jumble of vowels around Nick’s fingers, but it’s not like he hasn’t heard Greg talk with his mouth full before.

“Shithead.”

Greg makes some vague noise of either acquiescence or agreement, wraps his fingers around Nick’s wrist and squeezes, maybe a little harder than necessary as he practically goes down on Nick’s fingers right there in the booth.

He only lets go when Nick snags the smoldering joint from him, taking advantage of Greg’s distraction.

“What?” he counters when Greg whines and makes vague grabby-hands for the stolen spliff. “You’re too busy fellating my fingers to remember you had a lit joint in your other hand? C’mon.”

Nick takes a deep hit and then gestures towards Greg with his two wet fingers, _c’mere,_ until Greg gets with the program and leans forward across the table and opens his mouth to shotgun the hit from Nick’s lips.

They smoke the rest of the joint that way, swapping the smoke with lazy kisses until Greg tosses the smoldering roach into the icemelt at the bottom of his glass. It’s nice. Nick doesn’t feel _high_ so much as he feels sort of heavy and warm and blurry around the edges.

Okay, it’s _really_ nice.

The whole crossfade thing doesn’t really work for Nick. He tends to get real bad spins whenever he tries to mix drinking with weed or speed, unlike Greg, who’s hardly ever bothered by any sort of up-and-down double-whammy multi-substance-cocktail chaos he opts to put in his body.

Greg’s been able to take a hit (or several) and keep on rolling since long before Nick knew him; an ability no doubt acquired during his off-hours education at Stanford, and then in New York.

Nick, not so much. Oh, he can drink, no problem. But he’d done hard drugs exactly twice before he met Greg Sanders, and he knows when he’s outclassed.

Hence the cranberry vs. curaçao.

Still, that’s their agreement on nights like this: one drink (optional), one blunt (to be shared), one tab (apiece).

They’d tried sort of a free-for-all before, a dealer’s choice agreement with each of them drinking even after they started to roll. When that ended badly (not exactly hospital-bad, but still called-off-work-for-three-days bad) they went with a ‘two of everything’ system for a while, but the only one always standing at the end of the night was Greg.

Greg, who right-the-fuck-now tastes like candy and kush, artificial-blue and fecund smoky green, and – yeah, okay, that’d be the E kicking in.

“You feelin’ it?” Greg asks, his face still so close that Nick tastes the words before he hears them.

Fuck, but that shit hits him fast.

Brain working overtime as he tries to piece together a coherent sentence, Nick just mumbles, “Uh-huh.”

“One second, baby; hold that thought,” Greg says, holding up one finger to shush Nick. And then forget about holding his train –

Nick’s train of thought derails completely because Greg stands up, slides out of the booth with a carefully choreographed stumble, and Nick very nearly chokes on his own tongue.

Because Greg’s shimmery, see-through shirt isn’t tucked into a tight pair of shorts draped with chains, or the practically painted-on jeans he sometimes opts for.

Because instead, Greg’s got his shirt tucked into a fucking _skirt_ that barely grazes the middle of his thighs.

Because _apparently_ Greg does not want Nick to live to see forty. 

_“Fuck me.”_

“Later, maybe; if you’re lucky.”

Nick sucks a sharp breath through his teeth, not realizing that that came out audibly. Still, if one should find himself in Rome…

He lets his face drop into an unabashed leer, ogling Greg shamelessly. “Do a little spin for me, baby.”

“Later, maybe,” Greg repeats, with the same shit-eating grin. “If you’re lucky.”

“Yeah? And just how in the hell’m I supposed to find you later, Cinderella? Get the fuckin’ DJ to put out an all-points on the blue-tongued jackass in the skirt?”

Greg hesitates, bright blue tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Nah,” he decides with a grin, “There might be two of us, you never know. Besides, I think I’ve got a better idea.”

He sidles up to the trio of girls in the opposite booth and asks them if they’ve got a pen he can borrow for, _“just one sec; please, ladies, I promise it’ll be so quick”._ One of the girls produces a fannypack designed to mimic a watermelon slice and fishes around until she comes up with a fistful of Sharpies, all colors, as the other two giggle into their respective drinks in a way that reminds Nick – disturbingly, simultaneously, in a way he probably wouldn’t notice if he were sober – of kindergarteners and ninety year-old grandmamas.

“Get up,” Greg orders as he flounces back to their table. “C’mon, up we go, thank you.” He pulls Nick’s t-shirt taut, purposeful fingers grazing against Nick’s belt buckle as Greg takes the cap of the Sharpie between his teeth and scrawls across Nick’s chest, in quick dark strokes:

**_PROPERTY OF G.H.S._ **

_Sonovabitch._

Like _that_ doesn’t stoke the little flame of possessiveness that’s been building in Nick’s gut since he walked in the door.

“You’re one possessive little fuck, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told!”

“Yeah? By who?”

“Just a boy,” Greg laughs, slipping two fingers into Nick’s shirt collar and tugging the whole thing out of line so that the last yellow-green vestiges of a truly monstrous hickey Greg left at the base of his throat last week are visible. “Who I fucked while watching _Modern Marvels_ on mute with the subtitles on.”

“Anybody I should know about?” he asks, not rising to that particular bait because that was a good time. Deep sea salvage is cool. If Nick wasn’t doing this, maybe he’d be doing that.

But fuck Greg for making fun of the History Channel.

Honestly; no class at all, that one.

“Nah,” Greg says, all smiles and too-soft eyes. “Nobody serious. Just this really repressed guy who’d never really been on the scene before. Like, I kid you not, dude came in his pants from just a little bit of dirty dancing. Got him off in the middle of the club, just grinding on me, all these people all over the place, watching my guy lose his mind for me.”

“Well, maybe you just bring it out in people,” Nick tells him, definitely not blushing, absolutely not remembering that first time Greg took him out dancing. How Greg had wheedled and teased and pleaded until Nick finally snapped and agreed to a night out, _“à la Greg”,_ and every single overwhelming thing that came after.

“Now that,” Greg says, fucking _winking_ at him. “That I’ve never heard before.”

“Seems kinda un-fucking-likely.”

“Uh-huh. Finish your drink,” Greg waves him off, capping the marker and twirling it between his palms, turning away to hand it back to the fannypack girl, all unctuous _thank you_ s and _so sorry to bother you_ s.

“Oh,” Nick blurts dumbly. He actually goes still for a moment, half-in and half-out of the booth, frozen until Greg looks back over his shoulder and grins.

“I’m gonna hit the floor,” he says, all flippant and offhand, like he doesn’t care if Nick follows him or not. “Feel free to find me again if you need another roll, big guy. I’ll take care of you.”

A wink, a click of his tongue, a little shimmy, and Greg melts into the crowd, fucking stealthy even in those platforms.

Well, good goddamn. Greggo really came to play.

A syrupy, lethargic desire slithers through Nick’s veins as he sits back down and finishes off the rest of his cranberry juice in one long pull. He’s ready to go. He’s excited. It’s exciting.

Yeah, he’s aware that he’s probably very visibly high. But so is half this club. Hell, so if half this _city._

So who gives a fuck?

Not Nick.

**Author's Note:**

> Bro I seriously don't even know what happened; this was supposed to be like 800 words of smutty club nonsense and it devolved into THIS :shrugshrug:
> 
> And to all you folks out there who wanna say this is a pre-canon au: NO it is NOT it takes place somewhere between seasons 5 and 11 (you pick - I'm lazy); just know that it comes at least a year or so after 'grave danger', but before Nick's 40th birthday, so Nick and Greg are - at absolute minimum - 34 and 30, respectively. Don't tell me romance dies after 30; you actually think Greg Sanders really woke up on his birthday in 2005 and went 'welp I'm 30 now, guess I have no more kinks'?? NO!
> 
> Also, yeah; Nick Stokes is a light-weight. You know it, I know it, Greg knows it...we all been knew


End file.
